


It Won't Be Like This for Long

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Bleak, Gen, M/M, Marijuana, Shotgunning, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4431164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because he did this—he drove his camp to the brink, led them on impossible missions and left them with permanent wounds, and left Castiel to fall amongst strangers and learn humanity in the most formidable environment they had ever faced. A certifiable Hell with no aid in sight. No Angels and a world overrun with Demons and Croats around every corner, clawing at the gates just to get a taste.</p><p>He can’t even save his own people—how is he supposed to protect the one he cares for the most?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Won't Be Like This for Long

The radios are the first to go.

By some miracle of modern engineering, the Eastern grid outlasts its sister in the west, electricity still powering the homes and businesses that dot the Atlantic coast, or whatever’s truly left of them. Through sources outside of the one television set in the mess hall, Dean knows the population is in a steady decline, sparse at best. Los Angeles is nothing but an empty shell of what it once was, cities all along the western seaboard disappearing one by one the longer the lights were off. People couldn't survive—the banks were the first to go, followed by small businesses and corporations, restaurants and hotels. Hospitals barricaded their doors last, and for all he knows, their residents were long since deceased in their beds.

He tries not to think about it. Struggles to put it out of his mind most days, when the gates need tending to and when a lone Croat breaks into camp, only to meet a hail of gunfire. They’re more fortified than the other camps in the surrounding cities, the only ones with a steady supply of ammunition and antibiotics, the pharmacy always stocked with whatever ails them. It won’t be like this for long, he knows—at some point, in a year or so down the road, they’ll have to take stock of what they have left, what there _is_ left, and make a break for civilization, if civilization exists in the first place. Half of him believes they’re the only ones left on this God-forsaken planet.

The other half is perfectly content to live on his own, with women and his armory as his only company. And Castiel, too, whenever he decides wander in from wherever he spends his time. He could be up in a tree, for all Dean knows, or cares.

Castiel keeps a portable and a hand-crank radio in his cabin, both sitting on a mahogany-paneled dresser under one of his two windows, stained with water from a leak last summer and dustings from whatever he’s been smoking lately. Late afternoon into the evening, he’ll play the national news on the AM channels to a nonexistent crowd, prowling around his room or reading, or entertaining whatever company he shares for the night. Dean spends Thursdays with him, lounging with legal pads in his lap and a capless pen while Castiel stinks up the interior with whatever hash he’s managed to grow in the last few weeks, the two of them idly listening to representatives chattering on how _nothing is wrong_ , _everything is fine_ , _businesses are up and running_.

They both know it's not true. Far from the reality they’re living in. Dean hasn’t seen another human outside of his camp for two months.

It’s November when the crackling starts, the abruptness of it startling them both from their tasks, Dean pouring over an aged manuscript and Castiel sorting a collection of carved beads they snatched from a Michael’s the week before, the pair turning their attentions to the aging set. Slowly, their president’s words dissolve into uninterrupted static, and then nothing. The click of a dial. Silence.

It’s the quietest it’s been in years. Dean looks to Castiel, Castiel to Dean, his fingers stilled from where he was attempting to string a thread. “Maybe it’s… technical difficulties,” Dean says, voice absent. There’s a tremble there; if Castiel notices, he doesn't speak a word of it.

“Maybe,” Castiel says, and goes back to his beads.

It doesn't come back after two weeks. Castiel’s cabin is eerily quiet, Dean’s own not much better. Occasionally he’ll notice the lights flickering, but not for more than an hour; their generators are on standby in case the inevitable happens, and there’s enough gasoline and propane to get them through at least one winter, maybe more if they’re diligent with power rations.

For the most part, he spends his time in the mess hall, eyes glued to the Magnavox sitting on a faux-oak paneled table alongside two teenagers, taking in whatever channels they can get on the analog; occasionally he’ll fix the antennae or one of the kids will do it, just to make sure the picture comes in clear. It’s a miracle the thing is working in the first place, considering the parts he had to scrounge up from warehouses and the now derelict Home Depot. But it works, even if it does only pick up three channels plus Telemundo on the weekends.

The forecast is bleak, from what the meteorologist says in front of a magnetic map of the east coast, scattered with smiling suns and frowning clouds, majority of the latter spread out over the plains states, a promise of snow from whatever satellites haven’t crashed down above them. The computer-generated maps went out last year, as much as the media doesn't want to admit it. They won’t admit anything, not even the state of the nation.

He hasn’t seen the president in months.

“Look at it though,” Castiel tells him three weeks after the radio signals died, pointing at the television set from his perch on one of the mess tables, sprawled out on his back with his head upside down, hanging towards the floor. “Look at the background.” Dean does with scrutiny, hands wringing the month-old newspaper in his lap. “The trees don’t move behind him. I don’t think it’s _real_.”

“Must be smokin’ the good stuff,” Dean comments, eyes back to the paper. He won’t admit it, but Castiel is right—the scenery hasn’t changed since they started these broadcasts on the nightly news. Always a clear sky and a shot of the Capitol building in DC, always at the same angle. He may be an hour behind Eastern Standard, but he knows the sky isn’t teal at ten in the evening.

The winter before Sam said yes was the worst Dean had ever felt—icicles hanging from the ceiling, blankets and quilts over every window, a minimum of two feet of snow on the ground at all times. Some members of his camp even modified their cabins with fire pits, several trucks having ran trips to lawn and garden shops to stock up on bricks after the last year’s haul of snow chains. Dean’s own is three by three in the middle of his cabin, about two feet deep beneath the floorboards and another foot tall above, covered in the summer to keep out bugs but burning constantly once the temperature drops below fifty. Others store space heaters, praying that the power will stay on long enough to warm their homes.

On the coldest of those nights, when Dean’s not occupied elsewhere and Castiel isn’t bombing on his latest concoction, Castiel will take Dean’s bed and Dean a cot on the floor, occasionally waking to stoke the fire. They don’t talk about it; no one mentions it, never in the light of day.

Four weeks after the radio dies, so does the television. All lines of indirect communication cease with it, the end of three years of updates and hope. For all they know, they’re alone in the world, destined to die within the next few months; years, even. The snow begins to fall that night, thick and heavy after the mess hall has been cleared and the television stored away from wandering eyes, coating the roofs with an inch in twenty minutes.

Night falls before Castiel wanders in through the door, dressed in ratty jeans and tennis shoes not even tied, linen shirt hanging off one shoulder. He’s quieter than normal, more intent in his movements, feet barely making a sound on the hardwood floor once he’s slipped his shoes off, leaving them by edge of Dean’s bed. He knees his way onto the mattress while Dean sits at the headboard, snow gathering on his windowsill.

“Still no word?” Dean says, setting down the hardback in his hands, watching Castiel pull a Zippo and a wooden cigarette box from his back pocket, decorated with a painted crane overlooking a river, picturesque Mount Fuji in the distance.

Castiel pulls a half smoked blunt from inside the single drawer, pressing the filter to his lips and lighting the tip, inhaling. “Chuck hasn’t heard anything since Jade and Chris left yesterday,” he says through an exhale, head lolling back as he blows smoke rings above their heads. “Figure they’re stuck in the snow somewhere. Probably won’t be back until tomorrow.”

Dean nods along, quiet, eyes to his ankles. Across the room, the fire crackles in the pit below the floorboards, a warm glow in the darkness of night; the lone lamp on his bedside table sits unattended, the bulb near dying. Chuck has more in the supply, if the electricity will last that long. He doesn't think it will—they have another month or so at the least, in his opinion. And he knows Castiel agrees, knows it’s why he’s perpetually stoned and on more pills than God. It’s how he copes—Dean may take to pleasures of the flesh, but Castiel prefers to numb it all, to his very core.

Before him sits the shell of his best friend, drinking and smoking and fucking his pains away in plain sight; it shouldn't make his heart hurt, shouldn't feel like he’s being strung up every time he looks at Castiel, every time they’re close enough to touch. Because he did this—he drove his camp to the brink, led them on impossible missions and left them with permanent wounds, and left Castiel to fall amongst strangers and learn humanity in the most formidable environment they had ever faced. A certifiable Hell with no aid in sight. No Angels and a world overrun with Demons and Croats around every corner, clawing at the gates just to get a taste.

He can’t even save his own people—how is he supposed to protect the one he cares for the most?

Castiel takes another hit and snaps Dean out his thoughts with a touch, a hand cupping the back of his neck to draw him in, close enough to touch but not enough. It’s sweeter than normal when he inhales, honeyed smoke flowing between parted lips between breaths, Dean fighting the urge to choke on it. He watches Castiel with hooded eyes, clouded blue staring back just as soulfully, until Castiel kisses him and Dean holds his breath.

Just because it’s how they smoke together doesn't mean he’s used to it, to the proximity and the intimacy, to the fact they’re breathing the same air, the same drug. Castiel’s body is a sin, lips soft and plush against his own, hair snow-wet when Dean runs a hand through it, the muscles in his legs twitching when he runs a hand up Castiel jeans, coming to rest at his hip. They never go further—a few kisses between inhales and exhales, until they’re sprawled out on the aging mattress and clinging to the last bit of their sanity with joined hands.

He can’t bring himself to do much else, not anymore. He’s too scared, too terrified of destroying the little world they’ve created for themselves in the sanctity of his cabin, the one place no one ventures near without a purpose.

For now, he falls into the touch and lets Castiel carry him away, until they’re leaning side-by-side against the headboard, limp pillows at their backs with Dean’s arm around him, Castiel’s head on Dean’s shoulder, red-eyed and dazed as Dean strokes his hair, twirling the longer strands between his fingers. Outside, the snow continues to fall, another inch adding to the accumulation; by morning, he’ll have to shovel the porch clear just to leave.

“So this is it,” Castiel says at his side, fingers tracing idle designs on Dean’s jeans, picking at a loose thread. “This is humanity.”

“Don’t know what you expected,” Dean mumbles, nudging Castiel’s head with his own. He drops his hand, reaching out to rest on his thigh, allowing Castiel to touch him, just this once, their fingers twining together. They both reek of smoke; he can’t bring himself to mind. “Hell of a time for you to decide to fall.”

“I don’t think I could’ve picked a better time,” Castiel confides, quiet. He’s tired; they both are. Of life, of living, of fighting to the death every day just to keep surviving, in the off chance things will turn out better. Living like the world isn’t falling apart around them, like the masses aren’t dying off one by one. Like the grid isn’t failing every day.

Like they’re not struggling to love each other despite the drugs and the whiskey and the bloodshed, despite death waiting at their front door.

It’s impossible—they were doomed from the start. And doomed they’ll be.

“You shoulda went with the others,” Dean sighs, his heart not in it.

“I couldn’t take you with me.” Castiel looks up to him with glassy eyes, tracing his mouth over Dean’s stubble in a failed kiss. He rests his head in the crook of Dean’s neck in compromise, Dean holding him closer, digging his fingers into Castiel’s shirt. “I can’t imagine a world where I’d be separated from you, where I couldn't see you again.”

It’s the marijuana talking; any other time, and Castiel would have denied his feelings and settled for amicable silence. Now, he talks until he can’t, until Dean kisses him quiet, silence engulfing his cabin. No animals, no noise, not even the trees blow in the wind.

Outside, the world is silent.

Inside, the ghosts scream in his head, flickering the lamp at his side until nothing exists but Castiel’s warmth and the white outside his window.

The lights are the last to go.

**Author's Note:**

> ...I've always wanted to write endverse and I was listening to ambient music today, and I started thinking about Cas, and then the first line popped in my head and it went from there. It's amazing how I can write this but not my book. One day I'll prioritize.
> 
> Title is from the Darius Rucker song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
